The Ireland Series: Have Times Changed?

Research trip to Ireland — check!

Sell the house — check!

Resume blog posts — and…check!

My research trip to Ireland, over three weeks in duration, was geared at exploring resources I was unable to get my hands on via books or electronic means. This spanned collecting old newspaper clippings, getting a visual on buildings my characters encounter in their daily lives, to choosing exact locations where some of my scenes take place or once stood.

Some streets and buildings in my novel are near the current Peace Wall in Belfast, something that didn’t exist in my novel’s timeframe. Many streets no longer exist — civil wars have erase them. In the shipyard area, German bombs have wiped them off the map.

That doesn’t decrease the value in witnessing where they were.

When material things are lost to history and become intangible via computer, actual physical proximity is the closest substitute. To see a wall you wrote about and say to yourself, “Yes it’s brick as I imagined, but across the street it’s stone” — those are crucial details to a writer. These are the minute details often glazed over by the reader, but researched with dogged determination by the author.

My novel is mostly set in Ireland in 1920, during Ireland’s War of Independence. It was a time of political strife all over Ireland, with sectarianism rampant in the North.

Sound familiar?

The Airbnb apartment I rented for two of my three weeks in Ireland was in the “gay quarter” of Belfast, totally unplanned and totally awesome. The view from the eighth floor stretched across the city allowing me to see past the River Lagan over into the hills beyond East Belfast, Stormont, the seat of their currently non-functioning government, visible. News channels divided their segments between the upcoming marriage equality march outside Belfast City Hall, the aftermath of the tragic Grenfell Tower fire in London, and the status of how tall the bonfires were growing in the Loyalist sections of the city in anticipation of July 12, Orange Day.

The nights were filled with city lights, laughter, and the faint sound of music from local pubs and dance clubs. Seagulls nested atop the building across the street, much to research assistant #1’s — a.k.a. Mom — avid delight. I received daily updates on their developmental progress. She never did get to see those lazy avian juveniles take flight.

Belfast is still a city divided in many ways.

It’s better than it use to be, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t continuing issues. Religion and politics have always been an area of contention, now increased racism (some labeling it the “new” sectarianism) and anti-LGBTQQIAAP regulations join the fray.

While Ireland and Britain legally support equal marriage rights, in the north of Ireland marrying who you love in whatever form love comes is not an option. Kind of asinine since that area of Ireland is still under Britain’s control, yet its residents aren’t given all the rights of UK citizens. If you are a gay/queer couple in London, you can get married under UK law. If you are a gay/queer couple in Belfast, you can’t.

The same country runs both.

Chin up, my friends. I witnessed your rainbow flags flying out several of our complex’s windows and couldn’t wipe the grin from my face at the sight. Fight on, you brave heroes, your day of equality is coming.

Roaming the city streets of Belfast on foot with my iPhone GPS as a guide, I got to know Belfast better that I ever had before. I love the independence in going wherever I want in foreign countries, stopping to learn about unexpected finds, wandering down lanes off the tourist track that call to me. It’s my preferred way of traveling. Put me on a schedule and the experience is tarnished. Set me loose and I’m in my element.

In Belfast, there are still Loyalist (usually Protestant) and Nationalist/Republican (usually Catholic) neighborhoods, although there are more “mixed” neighborhoods than there use to be during the Troubles. And guess what? Google maps doesn’t care what your religion or politics are, it just wants to get you to your destination via the quickest route. Google maps doesn’t care that my father was an Irish Catholic from Belfast and my mother an English Protestant from the UK.

So it happened that, for the first time in my life, I walked through Belfast neighborhoods with the Union Jack flying everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. This is the normal state for Loyalist neighborhoods.

Nationalist neighborhoods aren’t allowed to fly the tricolour (the Irish flag).

Loyalist territories were ramped up ten fold during my time in Belfast as they prepared to celebrate Orange Day commemorating the Battle of the Boyne and the defeat of King James II (the Catholic king) by William of Orange (assuring a Protestant throne). Think bonfires throughout the night of July 11, higher than buildings, that burn so hot and close to homes that windows need to be boarded up to protect them from damage.

And they aren’t innocent bonfires.

      

These bonfires are made of hundreds of wood pallets and old tires that choke the air with thick black smoke covering the city with the stench of burnt rubber (I’m sure the environment loves that). The occasional couch or mattress has been deemed burnable by the bonfire makers.

Atop most is the tricolour as well as effigies of Nationalist politicians and heroes, Loyalists showing exactly what they think of these items/people. The worst I saw this year was blatant racist remarks written on a banner about Celtic football player Scott Sinclair. Why? Because he plays for an team favored by Catholics and happens to be black.

And this wasn’t the first time.

These aren’t bonfires of celebration, they are bonfires of hate. They are bonfires meant to rub something that happened 300 years ago into the noses of fellow residents/citizens.

Do I think all Loyalists/Protestants in Belfast are racist? Not at all. But for fuck’s sake, if it happens in your neighborhood, slap those eejits upside the head and say NO, THAT’S NOT OKAY.

I will also tell you, bonfires occur in Nationalist neighborhoods as well to commemorate when internment wrongly went into effect in 1971. For many years, the fires were wide spread, a tit for tat situation. Now, Republicans aligned with Sinn Fein have retired the tradition and there are far less bonfires. In 1988, West Belfast turned that time of year into a week long community festival, receiving much praise and turning a negative point in their history into a celebration of Irish culture.

July 12th parades aren’t the same sort of parades we have here in the United States.

There are no fun parade floats, high school marching bands, or large cartoon balloons. These parades consist predominantly of men in dark suits marching to flute and drum bands playing the same tune over and over again — It’s all seriousness, that of a demonstration mindset.

 

The City Centre shuts down for most of the day. It use to close for weeks due to all the rioting and troubles that occurred surrounding that date. Armored police cars are out in full force, although the police on my street were pretty unconcerned. From my window looking down to the alleyway, a group on five armored trucks and eight policemen were positioned. During the nearly three hour parade, one policeman was checking his phone for 2.5 hours, one was reading a book, and three lay down in their vehicles to take a nap. Clearly, they weren’t expecting any trouble.

The level of trash post-parade is atrocious and costs the city millions. I’d never seen that level of uncleanliness after a parade. I don’t think anyone bothered to attempt to find a trash can. Groups of men didn’t bother to find a toilet, bantering in rowdy, drunken groups while urinating in building alcoves.

On July 12, most of the taxis won’t run from the city center to other parts of town, so like all typical Americans, we called an Uber. Our driver, from England with African roots licking at his accent, talked of being burned out of his “mixed” area neighborhood in Belfast. And he wasn’t talking of mixed color. He was talking about mixed nationalities, mixed religions.

How can you decipher a person’s religion when most Christian religions have no outward physical telltale signs among followers?

It’s easy to notice someone is a different religion if they are required to wear a yarmulke, bindi, or hijab denoting such, but how do you tell a Protestant from a Catholic purely on appearance? They both may or may not wear a cross.

In Belfast, if someone is in a neutral territory and wants such information, this religious determination is done on the sly. Covert questions such as “What school did you go to?” or “What football team do you root for?” tells the questioner all they need to know. The answer tells them neighborhood, religion, how they will view that person. Whether they may be a friend or foe. It’s their way of saying “Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?”

In the case of our Uber driver, he “can’t wait” to leave Belfast and return to England. I don’t know what his religion was, what his political views were other than thinking Belfast “is insane,” but I do know that when driving into West Belfast, the Catholic area in which my relatives live, he smiled and said “This area is good. Here they accept all people, are friendly, talk to you.” Pride sparked within me at his statement.

I’m not naive enough to believe that there aren’t some Nationalists in West Belfast that are equally troublesome as some in Loyalist areas, but there is something to be said about a man, on neither side, who lives with racism, sectarianism, and rights opposition on a daily basis making such a positive statement about your “home.” Perfection? No. Improvement? Yes.

That’s how change begins.

 

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” — Margaret Mead

 

Not Just a Pretty Face

I’ve belonged to a writer group on MeetUp for about nine months now — the first MeetUp group I ever participated in. Held at trendy, locally sourced, farm raised artisan cafes, that conveniently accommodate us wine and beer drinkers in the group, they are beacons of camaraderie among writers. Creative bubbles, I call them.

The originator, whom I never met, up and moved to California leaving a new leader in her wake. At the beginning of each meeting, introductions are usually made — of yourself and your project — while we sit at a large round or rectangle table depending on the venue, laptops open for most. There are several traditionalists writing down their thoughts by hand. Falling in between the two, I appreciate the hybridization of the group. We even have someone developing their first graphic novel.

We all use different mediums to get our message across.

The group is growing in numbers each meeting as of late, prompting a splinter group to start meeting on another day of the week. Non-judgemental support of your craft and the method in which you implement it has been a steady thread each week. This is why I was stunned by the events of this week’s meeting.

There were many new writers to the group on Wednesday. During the introduction portion of the meeting, when it became my turn to speak, I said “Hi, I’m Tara and I’m working on a historical fantasy novel. I also sometimes work on my blog while I am here.” Quick, short, and to the point. I’ve done this intro countless times.

The words were no sooner off my lips when the male group leader said “We keep Tara’s photo up on our MeetUp page to lure new members to join the group.”

Silence.

I’m not a well known writer, so that isn’t the draw, nor was that the intent of his message. I should also note, I am only featured in group photos taken at MeetUp events, not individual ones. These are not publicity photos.

The thing is, when you are somewhere in a professional capacity, and surrounded by people you hope are impressed by your creativity, your dedication to your craft, and someone — even worse, the leader— follows your introduction of your piece with a comment regarding your looks, it steals the wind from your sails. It deflates your balloon and settles heavily within. It could make a less confident person doubt themselves and whether they should be part of any group. Thoughts such as “Am I good enough?” can sprout and grow wings. Me? I was insulted and angered.

Don’t tell me, or the group, that my worth is in a pretty face.

I refuse to accept the “He’s a guy” excuse. “Maybe he meant it as a compliment,” one person shrugged off. And if he did? That doesn’t make it right or appropriate.

Being male doesn’t give you permission to degrade someone’s ability, which is what happens when taking the focus off their art and putting it on their face. There shouldn’t be a space in professional or social arenas reserved for men to be misogynist idiots and say whatever they like, no matter who it hurts, because of their gender. Same goes for womendon’t do it.

A friend suggested that my comeback retort should have been “And that’s why we don’t use your photo” which a.) I was too stunned by the group leader’s comment to be that quick, and b.) my propensity to be kind and not rude is so strong within me that I would have felt terrible hurting another’s feelings, despite the fact that the consensus among those I’ve spoken to state that he deserved it.

Having not gotten an initial satisfactory response, and while waiting for other opinions to come in from my covey of illuminative texts sent to my squad, I contacted the Wasband, whom I knew would be enraged. Sure enough, I received a “That’s fucking shameful” and was relieved that someone got it — besides my fuming fourteen-year-old daughter whom heard the story when I walked in the door.

Side note: When socially conscious fourteen-year-olds feel injustice, it results in a plethora of memes texted to your cell capable of bringing down any culprit of wrongdoing. It also becomes number one topic at that week’s Social Justice Book Club at the local high school. They apparently now have my back. Goals.

It was the perfect word choice, shameful. Shame. On him.

To minimize my talent because of looks? To ignore my words describing my novel and instead relay to individuals, predominantly new members to the group, that my outward appearance is where their focus should be? It was humiliating and a flagrant disregard of my value as a member of the writing group.

The response I should have given was suggested by one of my best friend’s, “And I’m a pretty good writer too.” I didn’t do that. In reality, I froze with my lips in a stupid, tight smile, said nothing, and turned my back on him. I was dumbfounded. I was demoralized, for a moment, and felt attacked. He attempted to engage later in the evening, but I didn’t take the “We’re all friends” bait. In fact, I was the first to leave that night.

But I didn’t stay in that place, I didn’t allow it.

No one has the power to keep you in a place of demoralization but you.

Instead, I labeled his comment under “Ignorance” in my brain, and carried on. I know my worth, and won’t permit attempts to squash or redefine it.

That said, I really have to learn to be quicker on the uptake. Any quick comebacks out there you’d like to share? I’ll keep them in my back pocket for when I return to the group. Oh yes, I’m going back. Prepared.